


That's What Death Is, Isn't It?

by Creighton



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Arya and Bran as foils, Arya-centric, Battle of Winterfell, Bran is talkative, Gen, Now With A Second Chapter, Post-Episode: s08e03 The Long Night, Season/Series 08, Spoilers, Stark family feels, for 803
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-29
Updated: 2019-05-02
Packaged: 2020-02-09 22:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18646954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Creighton/pseuds/Creighton
Summary: Arya dealing with what she thought had been her goal all these years and the terrible thought that maybe she's just achieved it.Bran helps. Sort of.Everything you did brought you here. Where you belong. Home.





	1. Forgetting

**Author's Note:**

> This. Wouldn't. Leave. Me. Alone.  
> I've been thinking about all the ways Arya's arc led to the Battle of Winterfell - and there were too many things that I felt strongly about, so it turned into this ficlet. I love the littlest Stark siblings and I really think we're not gonna get much from Bran so. Here we are. This was written verrrry quickly so it's rough.  
> Title is from Sam's speech from ep 2, which was so foreshadowing Arya's twist it hurts. Summary might change later (this one is for spoilery reasons), but it's Bran reassuring Theon in ep 3 - please do read it critically, because I see a lot of people reading it as determinism when - no. Fuck determinism.

Dawn was breaking. Breaking. In that moment, struggling to catch her breath, her head fuzzy and aching, her hands shaking, her body exhausted, and with icy dust blowing at her cheeks as the sun had yet to set, the word seemed apt. 

A desperate lunge, an almost sluggish stab. The battle was over. They’d won. Arya looked at the piles of bodies around the Weirwood Tree, remembered her father praying here, and wondered what he would have thought of everything. 

“Did you know?” she asked instead, breathing deeply. She didn’t quite know if it was exhaustion, her head wound, or the adrenaline and sheer panic that was still rushing through her veins. Maybe it was the Night King’s hand gripping her throat, the ghost of the Dead always haunting her. 

Bran wasn’t looking her way anymore. His head was low, his face betrayed nothing, as usual. 

“Did you know this was going to happen? Is that why you gave me the dagger?”

“I thought you would go to King’s Landing.”

That’s right, he’d told her that. She hadn’t known for sure, either, but then she looked down at Needle, and remembered father and mother and Robb - but she’d seen them die - and Bran and Rickon - but they were dead too - and Sansa - but she was gone. Jon though, Jon was King in the North, and that meant something. She’d suddenly yearned for the sound of the north, and for Jon Snow’s smile, and she turned her horse around. 

“So you didn’t know.” She limped towards him, and sat down, her back against the wheel of his chair. They weren’t touching - she would have touched him, hugged him, if the moment was any different - but they were close, and that was enough. 

“You could have made a different choice,” Bran answered, helpfully for once. “You didn’t.” 

“It doesn’t feel like it. What would have happened then?” The Red Woman's words came to her mind. _Blue Eyes, eyes you'll shut forever. Not Today_. Beric Dondarrion surviving so long only to die for her. Little signs that she couldn't help but read into, wonder at. Get angry at. If she'd saved them all, could she have doomed them in the same way?

“I don’t know.”

“Would you have given the dagger to anyone else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Jon already fought the Night King, he even came back from death.” Jon, her brother. It was hard to imagine that she’d at some point lived in a world where he didn’t. But she thought she was all alone in the world at that time, so what difference did it make?

“But he didn’t make it in time. And you’ve defeated death once, too.” It made Arya pause. 

“What?”

“My path led me here.” Bran put his hand on the Weirwood Tree, closing his eyes as if seeing something. Arya was suddenly afraid he was going to warg, leave her here clutching to the ground as he went flying somewhere she couldn’t reach. “It led me to remembering everything. I became more than Bran. But you could have forgotten everything, you could have become No One. That’s what death is, isn’t it? Forgetting. Being forgotten. If we forget where we’ve been, what we’ve done, we’re not men anymore.”

“That’s what Sam said. It sounded familiar when he said it." She had wondered if Sam knew how close he came to describing her life. If he knew about the God of Death. "But I didn’t forget. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t.”

“You survived the cold in Harrenhal. You fought in the dark in Braavos. You chose to remember in Winterfell. And yesterday you decided to live. You had already survived the night before it started.”

Tears welled up in Arya’s eyes. But it wasn’t about her. She learned to fight with Jon, with Syrio, with Gendry and Hot Pie and with the Hound, with the Faceless Men and also with Sansa. But she was always too weak, too late, too far away. She remembered the rough texture of Yoren’s leather against her face as he commanded her not to watch, Needle shaking in her hand, wanting to do something, anything. The heavy weight of the Hound’s arm as he forced her on his horse, fleeing the scene of her brother and mother’s murder. The numbness of her mind, as Sansa told her about Rickon, unsure of what her littlest brother even looked like the last time she had seen him. The coldness of the air as she watched the Night King slowly approach Bran, her baby brother. 

“I protected you.” Bran looked down at her, and through the tears she imagined more than saw a hint of a smile on his lips. Her lips kept moving, repeating the words, as if to reassure herself that they were true. She searched blindly for her brother’s hand and was surprised to feel the ghost of his grip tighten. 

“Yes.”

  
  



	2. Remembering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya trying to answer the age-old question: what now?  
> Gendry and Bran help, each in their own way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently I had more to say.  
> This chapter is much longer and starts directly after the first one - I just wanted a follow up to the conversation between Arya and Bran, but the lead-up to it became a thing of its own, and I think it makes the whole thing much more coherent.  
> Once again, I wrote it in one sitting because apparently this is the only way I can write now? This is probably rough. And I have only reread it once so there might be typos that will only get corrected when I wake up lol.  
> Y'all reactions to the first chapter really got my mojo going to deliver this one so kudos to everyone who kudo-ed or bookmarked or commented! You're gems, all of you!

They couldn’t leave the Godswood - it was a good thing Bran could tell her that all of the people she was closest to had survived the night, or she would have probably gone insane with worry.

The night had been long - Arya wasn’t necessarily good at naming things, but she hoped they found another name than The Long Night for this fight - and now that it wasn’t under stress anymore her body was warring against exhaustion. She didn’t think she could have pushed Bran’s chair in the snow, let alone through the sea of Ironborns corpses that littered the ground around the weirwood tree. She could see Alys Karstark’s face from where she was leaning against Bran. The girl was around his age, and she had died to protect him - no, to buy them time. To buy her time, as it were.

“They shouldn’t be too long. Then we can get out of here.” She shuddered. Her throat was like ice, like the cold was coming from her lungs to seep into the air around her. Like… whatever the opposite of a dragon was. As a consequence her voice sounded dim, but in the silence of the Godswood it didn’t matter. 

“I don’t mind.” Bran then turned his head towards the large archway, and his eyes narrowed as if to see better. It was a very Bran expression. It reminded her of the time he would try to gauge her sincerity, when she used to tell him fantastical stories of the Targaryen warriors or the First Men. He would look at her the same way, inquisitively but not very much distrustful, knowing it was a game and he probably wouldn’t be able to call her out on her lies. She’d gotten much better at lying since then, it was a shame Bran had gotten even better at seeing the truth. “Jon is already here.”

She painfully raised her head, her left hand massaging her throat. Exhaustion and tears made everything blurry, so it took Jon’s booming voice for her to realize he had arrived. 

“BRAN!”

 

 

________

 

Everything was a blur after that, and in the chaos of hugs and cries and celebrations, Arya missed Bran’s quiet acceptance. Jon’s pride of her warmed her heart, but everyone looked up to him and she felt as if a thousand eyes looked at her when he addressed her. People were less blatant around Sansa, but the polite deference made Arya uncomfortable. Gendry was slightly better, but only because he was afraid of being effusive in public - and Arya most certainly wouldn’t have appreciated the stares that were sure to follow anyway. She loved her family, she did. She just didn’t much care for the others. 

Jon and Sansa were eternally busy planning for what came next and had taken Bran with them, and Gendry had been called to see to the forge, so she somehow found herself staying next to Lady -  _ Ser _ \- Brienne and the Kingslayer as they went around assessing the damage to the castle and collecting bodies. They mostly had eyes for each other and little regard for her beyond the polite interest her newfound kill had garnered, and Pod was as silent and dutiful as ever. The Hound joined at some point and the only thing he said to her was to that she looked like shit. She did. She still looked better than him on a good day. 

She didn’t need to be there, of course. She could have slipped away and found a quiet spot to rest away from anyone, but then she remembered the deathly silence of the library, the halls of her childhood home filled with the smell of death, the usually warm castle unearthly cold, or Beric Dondarrion’s eyes closing for the last time, and she shivered. 

“My Lady?” 

“Yes, Brienne?”

“Everything seems structurally sound - as much as we’ve managed to see. We’ll work in rotation, but you should go rest. Especially with your head wound.” The knight looked pointedly at her bandaged forehead. “Some of the larger rooms have been heated up for people to rest, and your quarters are probably warm as well. I can accompany you if you want.”

“No, it’s fine, I’ll go.” She’ll find something else to do. Best not worry Brienne, she was almost as stubborn as Sansa. Or herself. “Thank you Brienne.”

“My Lady.”

She walked towards one of the eastern passageways, because if led to the kennels and the godswoods and that’s where Vyserion had fallen. Might as well see a dragon from up close, even if it was dead - and resurrected, and dead again. A group of people were looking at it, either awestruck and a bit terrified or scratching their head at the mythical beast. They wouldn’t be able to move it until the Dragon Queen told them what to do with it, and there were more pressing matters. Still. It was a huge dragon in the middle of Winterfell’s eastern courtyard. Her younger self would have been delighted.

“It’s big, isn’t it?”

Arya smiled at the familiar voice. 

“Not really. The ones in the Red Keep are much bigger. Some of them at least. They don’t have scales anymore, though.”

“Ah, the Red Keep, of course. How could I forget about the dragons in the Red Keep. ‘m sorry, M’Lady.”

“Stop calling me that. It feels like everyone has a new name for me, can’t you use one of those at least?”

“I told you before, you’ll always be M’Lady.”

He was right next to her now. Arya discreetly pinched his forearm as punishment, but he just smiled sweetly. She might have been too tired to put in the proper amount of force for a pinch. Maybe it was time to rest after all. Her breathing was still cold, and she suddenly wanted to hide her face in the crook of his neck, to take in all of the warmth that was his, that was hers now.

“Are you done with the forge?”

“For now. Are you done keeping yourself busy?”

“For now. Let’s go find somewhere to sleep.”

She took his arm and started walking to the castle before he could protest. She was getting what she wanted now. No need to talk anymore. 

 

The halls were packed, with hardly any space to step, and Arya decided that they might as well sleep in a bed this time. Gendry panicked at the idea of going up towards the lord’s quarters, but she shushed him with a tired look. The upper floors hadn’t seen any fight or any wights - probably because no one made it this far - and Arya could recognize her home again. Her bed was untouched, and she groaned at the sight of it. She found the strength to disrobe and looked pointedly at Gendry when he didn’t move.

“Come on, we’re not sleeping in those filthy clothes.”

He sighed and when he still wasn’t fast enough she helped him remove his shirt, before rushing him to bed. With her face beneath the covers and against his shoulder, she was surrounded by the sense, the smell of his skin, and warmth was everywhere. She took a deep breath, the first real one since night fell, and her eyelids dropped in exhaustion. She could only feel the ghost of a tender kiss on her forehead before sleep took her. 

 

___

 

When she woke up it was dark, her throat was dry and aching, and she had trouble breathing again. Gendry was sleeping soundly next to her, but in her chest her heart was beating louder by the minute, and she needed to get out. She put on a nightdress and hurried out of the room, into the darkened hallways. She heard yells outside and went to the closest window to see what it was about. People were piling up the dragonglass weapons, she didn’t know for what purpose. There were no enemies in sight. 

A dim light coming from the room next to hers caught her attention. She didn’t hesitate before barging in, not even knocking to check if he was awake. She wasn’t even sure if Bran even slept anymore. 

“Shouldn’t you be asleep?” she asked anyway. Bran was in his chair, looking out the windows He took the time to turn his chair around towards her, and she was grateful. 

“I’m not tired.”

“It was a long day. Long night.”

“I didn’t get hurt.”

Right. He almost died, but she got here in time. Still, just because he couldn’t fight - or defend himself against physical attacks - didn’t mean he did nothing. Was that a joke he just did?

“Warging takes a lot.”

“Yes. It’s hard to see.” She helped him out of his chair and onto the bed, arranging the cover around his legs. Then she climbed in next to him and watch their legs beneath the covers. His were longer. He was a lot taller than her. She hadn’t realized. 

“You said you needed to learn to see better.”

“I still do. I’m not very good.”

“You sound pretty good to me.” His eyes crinkled at her words. Arya took it as a smile. They were talking about one of those things that a mere mortal like her probably couldn’t understand. 

“How did it feel? When you became the Three-Eyed Raven?” Bran pondered the question.

“I learned to fly.” Oh. She wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but that wasn’t the first time he’d talked about flying. 

“Was it worth it?” He looked at her for a while, as if searching for something. 

‘Yes,” he said simply. Arya felt- she didn’t know. Anger? Offense? Sadness? Bran must have sensed her confusion because he continued. “Everything I did brought me where I am now, where I belong. Home.”

“Oh.” She didn’t expect that. Sometimes she felt that whatever she’d had to sacrifice along the way wasn’t worth it, that it took too much out of her. But Bran was fine with it. “I don’t think anything I did was worth it. Sometimes, at least.”

“Why not?”

“I trained. I learned. I can do so many things now, but it wasn’t enough.”

“Wasn’t it?”

“I was going to die. If the Hound and Beric Dondarrion hadn’t been there… If Beric hadn’t sacrificed himself for me… I trained for years, and it’s like I’m still in that room in King’s Landing, abandoning Syrio Forel to his death only to live another day. So if I haven’t learned anything, why did I have to go through all of that?”

“You killed the Night King. You saved everyone. Nothing else mattered.”

“I didn’t save  _ everyone _ ! I saved you.”

“Isn’t that what you trained for?”

“I trained because I wanted them to pay.”

“You were training long before you wanted justice.”

She’d told Sansa a story, before they executed Littlefinger. A pretty story of a girl’s tenacity and fierceness and a father’s approval. She had been playing the game of face for so long she wasn’t sure she ever stopped playing. 

“I don’t remember what it was like, before I wanted revenge.”

“I do.” He said it like he didn’t know how comforting it was. To know. To remember, even if she didn’t. She suddenly understood what it meant to be the Three Eyed Raven. Even before the House of Black and White, she barely remembered her father’s face, the sound of her mother’s laugh, the curl of Robb’s hair. Bran remembered everything. She wondered if he would have been able to kill No One, to bring back Arya Stark, had she managed to make her disappear completely. 

“What happens now?”

“You still have your list.”

She did. She suddenly realized she hadn’t said the names the night before, she’d forgotten, exhausted as she was and snuggled to Gendry so closely. She didn't need them to fall asleep anymore, and the Faceless Men had beaten the habit out if her, but she usually remembered they existed, remembered her self-imposed task, the one that kept her alive. There were still two names left, and everyone else in Winterfell wanted them dead too. It felt like - she’d accomplished something today. A purpose, of sort. 

“But what happens to you? Do you have something you need to do, as the Three Eyed Raven? Will you stay here?”

“I don’t know yet. I need to learn to see better. Then I can make a choice.” So that was it for now. He’d keep on flying as she made sure that her task was completed. Her little brother closed his eyes, and in this moment he looked like the brother she’d left behind, still asleep after his fall but still the lively, content, proud boy she was finally remembering from her childhood. He was this Bran, and the other, older one - not different but one and the same, the same way her path had always led her back to herself. Where they belong. Home. Together. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not sure I got anything more for this story, but there are still some stuff I was thinking of I haven't explicitly talked about, so who knows? If we get a tiny bit of Bran's POV of the Battle next ep, I will probably have stuff to say. I'm trying not to get too excited at the prospect because I'm not sure we'll get it though!

**Author's Note:**

> Who else is super worried about these two crazy kids now that they've done their badass parts?  
> I really liked the twist in this ep. I don't really know if it makes Arya the Princess That Was Promised, but it seems fitting that the hero wouldn't know it was them all along, not until their heroic moment. Because that's what it boils down to at the end, right? The hero of the prophecy only gets one moment, there's nothing before or after, just this moment that makes them a hero. Melisandre and Bran moved all the pieces around Arya to create this moment, but all the decisions she took were her own.  
> Anyway, if you enjoyed this please leave a kudos, or comment if you feel like it!


End file.
